


Danse Sauvage

by CesarioWriter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Bellatrix Black Lestrange, BAMF Hermione Granger, Canon Has Been Given A Dementor's Kiss, Discord: Bellamione Cult, Don't Bloody Well Send Children Off To War, F/F, International Confederation of Wizards (Harry Potter), J.K. Rowling Cannot Do Math, Muggle-born Culture, No Lesbians Die, Not Beta Read, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, There Is No Such Thing As Black And White Morality In War, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-19 03:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16526606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CesarioWriter/pseuds/CesarioWriter
Summary: Before the end of summer, all of the unspoken rules were known. Before the end of the year, all ties were broken. Before the end of the decade, even more was broken. But she? She remained unbroken.Begins mid-way through Order of the Phoenix. Not adherent to book or movie canon under the adage "Look, all your shit is broken and now I have to fix it, go sit in the corner and think about what you've done while I unfuck this." Unapologetically Bellamione.





	Danse Sauvage

_The only part of the conduct of any one, for which he is amenable to society, is that which concerns others. In the part which merely concerns himself, his independence is, of right, absolute. Over himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign._  
John Stuart Mill, "On Liberty"

  
The echoes of the resonant explosion had barely died beneath the indignant squawk of displaced wildfowl as they alighted from their rightful place atop the towering and imposing monolith that dominated the bare rock. Rising into the sky with a matte void of color that echoed the twisted soul takers that prowled its corridors, the impregnable prison of Azkaban smoked and shuddered as its darkness was exposed to the outside world for the first time. From within the rubble from the concussive blast that had slashed open the upper levels of the prison, a grey figure stepped forward. Bare feet trod over the shorn rock that still shimmered with its enchantments, shambling steps heedless of the sharpened points of rock that dug deeply into the flesh.  
  
Wide eyes took in the sight, for the first time in a decade and a half, of the low, crashing waves that beat against the unforgiving rock, the low flight of sea faring birds that released crackled cries to the unhearing ears of those who dwelled within the prison. The tender encroachment of the light reflected coldly against the white capped waves, the steady thrumming crash of force barely able to be heard beneath the guttural moaning that filled the air.  
  
Above the moans and the crash of the pounding surf, a new sound emerged, one which had not been heard for many years. Starting low, then rising to a feverish pitch, the long unheard cackle of Bellatrix Lestrange rose over the destroyed upper levels of Azkaban. On the bare rock below, a scrambling Auror shivered at the sound as feet pounded in a pell-mell run toward the monolith. Desperate, the thought emerged that should those within those cells be released, the world would be irrevocably changed.  
  
High above, Bellatrix Lestrange raised her gaze to spot the lone owl that arced through the wisps of smoke toward her. Extending her hand, the owl swooped into the prison quickly, its talons releasing and dropping a large skeleton key into her hand. A wide grin split her face. Turning, she cast her eye about the area. Grasping the key in her hand, she gathered those closest to her. Within a scant few minutes, a lowly muttered word was nearly lost in the whipping wind that lashed at the exposed cells of the prison, no longer protected by wards or the thick stone walls that leached warmth from everything and everyone.  
  
"Porto!"  
  
\---  
  
The news spread quickly through the wizarding world. The Daily Prophet blasted its headline: MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN. The New York Ghost was marginally less sensational: AZKABAN BREAK. The stories within were limited in scope but did include Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge's official statement.  
  
Fingers traced over the words, snorting a dismissive laugh at the assertions made by Fudge that Sirius Black, previously escaped Azkaban prisoner, was the de facto leader of the escaped prisoners that included Bellatrix Lestrange. If it weren't indicative of the very reasons why they sought change -  
  
The paper wrinkled as it was clutched in a fist before being discarded. A calming hand came to rest against the clenched fist. Two pairs of eyes met.  
  
"It's time." Their fingers tangled and they sat in silence for a long moment before anything further was said. "She'll be fine."  
  
"For all of our sakes, I hope you're right."  
  
\---  
  
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, glared at Hermione Granger's copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , staring at the pictures of each of the ten known escapees. The cleanup efforts were ongoing, according to the article, and he released a breath as he read the announcement from the Minister. Sharply intelligent brown eyes watched his reactions with minute attention. Odds were, he would be intent on clearing the slander against Sirius, but it was also likely that he might get distracted.  
  
The Boy Who Lived was nothing if not predictable, after all.  
  
Hermione watched quietly as the emotions flickered across Harry's face. He rubbed at his forehead, the nervous tracing of his scar enough to broadcast just how worried her best friend truly was. Next to him, Ron Weasley scowled at nothing, his mood as bleak as the news.  
  
Regardless of the news, it was imperative that Harry keep his temper. His detentions with Dolores Umbridge were not helping his mood, nor were the efforts of the Order of the Phoenix. Though the efforts of the Order were all aimed at keeping Harry and those around him safe, the tight lipped nature of a secret society did not do much to engender trust. She had hoped, deeply hoped, that Dumbledore did indeed know what he was doing by keeping Harry in the dark. As it was, she was barely given more than he was, so intent were they on the protection of the students. Thankfully, their efforts with Dumbledore's Army had been proving fruitful thus far. There had been some magnificent stunners being thrown during their last meeting.  
  
She rubbed her thumb idly over the coin in her pocket, feeling the raised lettering. While she'd originally claimed to have gotten the idea from the Dark Mark, in truth, her inspiration for placing a Protean charm on the coins was significantly more mundane. Having been raised in the muggle world, and attended muggle classes until her twelfth year, she was intimately familiar with numerous aspects of modern muggle history and culture.  
  
Aspects such as the wish fulfillment fantasy of James Bond and the actual work done by the SIS during World War II. While she had given some thought as an innocent eleven year old to the mysteries inherent to Bletchley Park, she had never then imagined that she might be caught in her own espionage efforts. During the summers with her parents, she'd read more on some of the intelligence and counter-intelligence efforts of the past, and what little there was of more recent efforts that was available to the general public - all information which was coming in significantly more useful than she'd ever imagined when she'd initially started her varied fields of research. It probably helped that Umbridge was determined to cleanse the school of filth. Not that it helped much for their actual schooling.  
  
Her thumb traced along the edge of the coin in her pocket.  
  
Maybe she could cast a charm to allow the coins to also serve as an information storage device. Copies of books, documents, pictures, ideas...while she could store them elsewhere, it wasn't always feasible to do so. Having a secret information holding and display device in her pocket, however, might serve her well. Especially if she should ever need to leave the school quickly. Going on the run wouldn't give her much space for the extensive library she needed. Maybe something like one of those data pads in science fiction shows...  
  
She almost smiled to remember the microfiche storing coin that had inspired her. Chalk marks on mailboxes, flags and curtains hung and drawn on schedules - the simplest of signals could indicate the deepest of secrets.  
  
Her gaze flickered over to the newspaper, the screaming figure of Bellatrix Lestrange repeatedly howling in her general direction. Watching the chained woman, Hermione couldn't help the shiver of fear that danced icy tendrils along her spine.  
  
Whatever else she might be, Bellatrix Lestrange was an accomplished witch. It had not been all that long before Hermione that she had stalked the halls of Hogwarts, along with the rest of the Death Eaters that had escaped the clutches of Azkaban. Hermione mentally added a note on her reading list - find out more about Azkaban. If they needed to defend against the escaped prisoners, it would be useful to know what they had suffered and adjust their defenses appropriately.  
  
With a shove, Ron pulled Harry's attention away from the paper. "C'mon, mate, 's dinnertime." He shot a dark look at the paper. "It'll keep."  
  
The crisp January night air didn't penetrate the hallways as they traipsed through the various stairwells that led them to the Great Hall. A selection of professors were already seated a the head table, watching the subdued assemblage with a forced air of calm. Taking a deep breath, Hermione walked toward the Gryffindor table with her mates.  
  
Maybe after dinner they could do some extra studying. O.W.L.s were coming up quickly, after all. Already in second term and little to show for it aside from her prefect badge. While the access to the bathroom was a definite perk, she couldn't help but wonder if it was truly worth it every time she had to watch over the younger students. Or when she had to stand to task for the misbehavior of those under her charge.  
  
The rest of January passed with little fanfare beyond the breakout. Umbridge continued her reign of terror, with her little Inquisitorial Squad serving as an irritant. Intent on little beyond their own ends, it was increasingly frustrating to deal with, though probably not as frustrating for her as it probably was for Harry.  
  
It appeared he could scarcely lift a finger to request the lavatory on his own without Umbridge trying to spot his machinations.  
  
On the positive side, her unwavering fixation on Harry did free up some of the others. Their DA meetings retained their use, allowing them to continue to progress further in their protective spells.  
  
Thinking back on the looping image of the screaming prisoner, Hermione feared it might not be enough.  
  
The first Hogsmeade visit was coming up quickly. She idly wondered if there was any significance to Hogsmeade weekends being a near perfect match up to bank holidays in the muggle world. Probably not. It wasn't like there was much crossover between the two. The wizarding world was curiously insular. It reminded her of what she'd read regarding the isolation of Japan prior to the Meiji period. It was possible that it would have a better result, though given that the opening of Japan had been a forcible invasion by the outside that had ended the period of isolationism...  
  
Hermione's head throbbed.  
  
Problems to mull over on another day. In the meantime, more pressing issues were at hand. Like the Weasley twins and their insistence on testing potions, charms and jokes on first years.  
  
Sometimes, the prefect badge was more trouble than it was worth. Was it too much to ask for a quiet, mundane school year?  
  
Thankfully, taking the Weasley twins to task did not delay her. She was able to be front and center for her required escort duties to Hogsmeade. A first year nearly fell off the well traveled trail from Hogwarts and it was a close thing before a second year reached out and snagged the back of the first years robes, yanking them back upright. Hermione released a relieved sigh. Thankfully, nothing further besides high spirits occurred before she released them to wander the peaceful wizarding locale.  
  
She'd always liked Hogsmeade. Quaint and small, the hamlet served an invaluable location for the inhabitants of Hogwarts. Idly she wondered whether Hogsmeade had ever housed the staff of Hogwarts. Given its lengthy history, and the timing of its founding, it was likely that the Founders had employed the classic castle design inherent to the world at that time. Though, at that time, there had been that one castle given over to the monks on the assumption that the world would end on the millennium. More fools they.  
  
Shaking her head free of those thoughts, she turned toward Tomes and Scrolls. She had time enough before she was due to meet Harry and Ron for a butterbeer, but not enough to woolgather. Ahead, she spotted a cloak vanishing into the doorway of the bookstore, a figure too tall to be one of her students. She would lay bets that some of her students would make their way into the bookstore. She just hoped that none of them took after herself, Ron and Harry. It wouldn't do for there to be more troublemakers. The world was in enough trouble as it was.  
  
The door swung open, the aged bell above the door giving its customary cheery chime. Her step barely faltered as she was overwhelmed with the scent of aged parchment, leather and ancient paper that wrapped around her as an old friend. Beneath the scent of knowledge, she detected the bitter tang of coffee, a light wavering scent that mingled with the books in harmonic balance. The warm air enrobed her in a silent embrace that relaxed her shoulders. She turned her head, her eyes casting over the low table displays near the front of the store. A heavily confused Gilderoy Lockhart stared wide eyed at every incoming patron from its half-hidden position.  
  
Hermione couldn't quite bring herself to be much bothered at his fate.  
  
Bloody arrogant git.  
  
She turned away from the display and headed down the second aisle, toward the back. She remembered a slim tome that had a fairly innocuous title the last time she'd visited. It had been one of the many books she had noted in the event they may be useful in future. During summer, the title had returned to the forefront of her mind as she delved into a particularly detailed accounting of efforts during the mid-war years. A phrase had caught her eye and she had stared for a long moment before the title of the book she had seen returned to her.  
  
It seemed fantastical, but no less than being a witch should be. Wizarding efforts to remain hidden were lackadaisical at best, and woefully inadequate at worst. Wartime, whether in the wizarding world or the muggle, seemed to be the time when the line betwixt the two was blurred the most. It should not be so surprising to her to spot so many recognizable names in books of magical history, yet each time it remained a shock.  
  
Muggle wars were frequently ignored by the general populace until the falling shells prevented them from making their way to the greengrocers. Some, however, couldn't stand by and allow fellow human beings - muggles though they may be - to suffer needlessly. It was apparently a point of pride that Mad Jack Churchill had been one of Those Churchills, and despite his choice to leave his wizarding life behind him and live as a muggle, his name had never been struck from the family tapestry out of respect for his efforts in the muggle world.  
  
Other than Churchill's seemingly insane choice to charge a battlefield armed with a claymore against Mauser Karabiner's, it was his numerous eccentricities that marked him as other within the muggle world. He remained as Hermione's leading example of a complete lack of adherence to the Secrecy Act. Hiding in plain sight, indeed.  
  
Regardless, there were numerous other examples, some better than others. One of the greatest breeders of the Tamworth during its rise to popularity, for instance, was from a respectable line of mediwitches. She remained amused by the idle thought of what that family discussion must have been like. _No, mum, I shan't attend classes, I'm to raise the best pigs this side of the pond!_  
  
Her step faltered as a cloaked figure stood before the exact shelf she'd remembered housing the book she was after. As she drew closer, she spotted the book held in slim fingered hands as elegant fingers opened the tome. In faded gilt letters, the title winked out at her.  
  
_l'Hirondelle noire de la mort_  
  
Her mind automatically supplied the translation: _The Black Swallow of Death_.  
  
Hermione's fist clenched and she thought for a long moment about whether or not to say anything. She did truly wish to know what was in that book, but was loath to assault someone over such a thing.  
  
Again.  
  
It wasn't like that hex had even been _serious_.  
  
Her decision was abruptly stymied by the turning of the head within the cloak, the shadowed depths barely revealing an elfin chin. Could it be termed as such, if elves truly existed and looked nothing like the standard muggle expectation? She released her fist and ducked her gaze, staring intently at the shelf just below chest height, eyes needlessly tracking over titles she had become familiar with the previous year. She raised a hand and lightly pressed her fingertips to the aged spines, taking in the feel of the leather beneath her touch.  
  
"A bit of light reading to start the school year?"  
  
Deeply amused, the tones that met her ears were smoky and dark with hidden knowledge. Each syllable was drenched in a knowledge that Hermione did not, could not know. The sudden words startled her into recognizing exactly which book spine she caressed. She nearly groaned aloud at the recognition of _A Rainbow Concordance: The Queer Wizarding History_.  
  
 However mortifying it was to be discovered by a stranger perusing a title she hadn't even realized she was perusing, she refused to be embarrassed that someone might think her queer. She turned her gaze to meet that of the stranger beside her, leveling a steady gaze on the woman.  
  
"No, I've already got my copy." She nearly choked on her tongue as she caught sight of the woman before her, the hood of her cloak pushed back just enough for Hermione to catch sight of her eyes. Swirling in the dim lighting, they drew in with the barest flecks of starlight hidden in the midnight skies. A keen curiosity lurked there, and Hermione found herself straightening her spine yet further under the sharpened perusal.  
  
A short, breathless laugh sounded from the woman and she tapped a finger against the edge of the book in her hands. Hermione's glance darted down to those elegant fingers and she jerked her gaze back up to the woman's expressive eyes, a curious little smile curving the woman's lips.  
  
"If you haven't, give _Laying Lavender At Her Feet_ a look." The woman's finger traced a line against the edge of the book, the pad of her finger circling slightly. Hermione swallowed, her cheeks flushing. "A bit fanciful of a take, but there are elements of truth to the purple prosed tales of witches seeking their lover's favor."  
  
Hermione's fingers clutched at the edge of her robe, the soft cloth grounding her in the moment as she tried desperately not to stare. " _Laying Lavender At Her Feet_? Thank you. I'll keep an eye out for it..." Her voice trailed off as she floundered. What the deuce could she call this woman?  
  
The woman laughed softly. "What's your name?" Her head tilted to the side as she asked, her eyes glittering in the soft light of the bookstore.  
  
"Hermione."  
  
The woman's lips curled into a slow smile, and she extended her hand out to Hermione. Dark eyes swept across her form, sending a tingling along her nerves. Hermione wrapped her hand around the softly callused hand before her, her cheeks flushing deeply as she clasped it.  
  
"Its a pleasure to meet you, Hermione. I'm Rosabella, Bella to my friends." She released Hermione's hand, her lips still curled in that curious smile, sending shivers along Hermione's nerves. "I hope we shall be friends when we meet again."  
  
With a dip of her head, Bella turned and strode off through the dimly lit aisle of the bookstore, Hermione's quarry still clutched within her grip. Hermione exhaled and turned to the shelf, her fingers again tracing along the spines of the books, intent on finding _Laying Lavender At Her Feet_. She might not have been able to secure the tome she had initially sought, but she may be able to secure one which may serve her well regardless. 


End file.
